


oh baby lay your hands on me

by somethingmoresubtle



Series: massage au [1]
Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, M/M, Marcus Carefully and Deliberately Uses Google, Marcus Deserves Nice Things, Marcus Has Difficulty Getting Nice Things, Marcus is still a priest lmao, Masturbation, clearly... the natural career choice..., massage therapist tomas ortega
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-03-21 14:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13743303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingmoresubtle/pseuds/somethingmoresubtle
Summary: He's going to kill Bernadette, if Tomas' hands don't kill him first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> as gandhi said "if you see a lack of dumb exorcist aus, be the change you want to see in the world, write that ridiculous fucking fanfic where Tomas is a massage therapist"
> 
> SO HERE WE ARE.

He’s going to kill Bernadette, if Tomas’ hands don’t kill him first.

 

* * *

 

It starts with Mother Bernadette, in her _graciousness_ and _kindness_ and _infinite bloody sagacity_ , who takes one look at Marcus shuffling around the kitchen trying to innocently brew a cuppa, and snorts derisively in a way that does  _not_ suit her position as Prioress. His back is perfectly fine, and not even that sore, and his posture is excellent, and frankly, none of her business, he says, and he is very able to turn to look at her without moving his whole body, thank you very much.

She watches him disapprovingly for the minute or so he spends trying to reach the tea tin on the second shelf, before silently floating from the room. He has a lot to learn from her re: silent judgement that so permeates the room in your presence that there’s a shame vacuum when you leave. When Bernadette returns a couple of minutes later, she finds Marcus leaning very comfortably against the counter, sipping a cup of hot water. Which was the point all along.

Bernadette looks at the cup, then up at him, eyebrows raising into perfect arches of disbelief.

“It’s good for the digestion.” Marcus says primly around the caffeine headache that's rattling his last few brain cells to a throbbing tempo.

She rolls her eyes and pinches a tea bag from the tin on the second shelf with ease, depositing it in his cup. It feels like some lesson in wisdom, like everything Bernadette's ever done with her mouth shut, which is a frankly unbelievable con that Marcus wishes he had the patience for.

He watches the weak wash of tea into water. “You did it backwards; it’s no good if the tea goes in last.”

She scoffs, and thrusts a slip of paper so close to his eyes that all blurs, his head jerking back to focus properly and sending an agonizing wind of pain, sharp and bright down his spine, one hand going up automatically to cup the back of his neck as he curses. When he has the ability to think again, he carefully puts down his poor excuse for tea and snatches the card out of her hand, glaring. Bernadette is beatific, placid, waiting like she could spend all day just watching until Marcus does as he’s told. She is not allowed, under any circumstances, to meet Bennett, or God forbid, _Mouse_. The world would quake at the force of them.

“You’re getting nasty in your old age,” Marcus says, squinting at the card until the blurs coalesce into warm black type against thick cardstock, spelling out an address, a phone number, a name. “Tomas Ortega: Massage Therapist?” he says incredulously. “You want me to waste an hour getting what, hot rocks on my back in the middle of Roland’s fucking _exorcism?”_

Bernadette gives him an affirmative hum and floats over to the fridge, point apparently made.

“Hold on now. You can’t just go about your business and eat your wheaties when you’ve brought up this nonsense.” Marcus says as she pulls out milk, strawberries, and a pre-chilled bowl and spoon, the animal. “I’ll walk it off, stretch a little if you insist, and I’ll be right as rain by evening.”

She pulls a paring knife from a drawer, washing the strawberries and patting them dry before cutting them decisively, thick slices that gleam red.

“It’s stupid to waste like, what, fifty dollars on something like this. I’m not a, a Swedish skier after a long day on the slopes. I’m not going.”

She pours cereal into the wide brimmed bowl, gently depositing the fruit on top before pouring milk over it, picking up her spoon and bowl, and sailing out of the kitchen as quietly as she came.

Quietly defeated, Marcus sips at his tea and grimaces at the taste of it. He’s never won an argument with her, silent or otherwise. Isn’t sure why he even bothers.

 

* * *

 

This all leads him here, smoking sullenly on the curb of a little clinic five blocks from the church and half-heartedly praying for the balls to go inside and get this over with. The whole experience. Is just. Marcus really doesn’t want to do it, even if every step here ached, no matter how slow he walked or how he angled his hips. He is man enough to admit that yes, he fucked up his back yesterday when Roland had sent him flying backwards, scattering half a circle of nuns and laughing all the while, even harder when Marcus hit the wall with a dull thwomp. He’s not quite dumb enough to think this wouldn’t be a disadvantage during the exorcism- even if he was able to stand up straight and protect himself if need be, it’s hard to channel God’s love and forgiveness for the fallen when he’d rather throttle them a bit for the misery he’s in.

Marcus is thinking about starting a fourth cigarette to give him another five minutes before he gives up and pisses off back to the convent when a cross teenager in a pale pink polo ducks her head out the door, chimes ringing gently.

“Hey pops, are you coming in or not?” She says, breath steaming in the cold. “You can’t moodily loiter outside all day.”

He feels the beginning of a grin pull at the corners of his mouth. “Why not? Free country, innit? Don’t I have a right to loiter as moodily as I like, wherever I like?”

Her glare intensifies, if possible. “This is supposed to be a restful place, _sir_ , and you’re stressing me the fuck out. Do you have a massage related vendetta that’s going to lead to you shooting up the place?”

He stubs out his cigarette, twisting his toe over the ember. “Vendetta? No. Very reasonable discomfort, yes.”

She looks unimpressed. “Shooting level discomfort?”

“God, no.”

She shifts her weight impatiently. “Then get over yourself and come in, it’s cold as hell out here,” and holds the door open in such a way that Marcus can’t say no.

As he steps inside and stomps the snow off his boots, she round a tiny reception desk on the far end of the room. “Fill this out,” she says, thrusting a pen and clipboard at him. “It’s slow so you don’t have to rush but like, also, you’ve wasted like half an hour of my life already, so.”

“So,” Marcus drawls, long ‘oh’ until she rolls her tiny teenage eyes, _bless_ , and impatiently finishes her thought, telling him to just fill out the goddamn forms to the best of his knowledge.

“Can I ask you if I have questions Miss-” he glances down at her shiny plastic name tag- “Verity?”

“Please don’t.” Verity says, and stomps back to her desk. Bernadette was right, this is helping already.

He scrawls in his information in the patient bit, and resists the urge to circle the whole body in the bit where it asks about the parts that are bothering him. They don’t have all year, after all. There’s a bit about aromatherapy and some other shit that he skips right over before signing his consent. Marcus stands up slowly from where he’s folded himself into a squashed armchair, trying not to visibly wince as he brings the clipboard back to Verity. “I struggled through valiantly. Every time I had a question, I thought to myself, ‘what would Verity do?’ and kept my trap shut.”

She stares at him in something rapidly approaching horror. “Oh my God. Are you a dad? Is that why you’re like this?”

Every day is truly a blessing. “No,” he says, grinning in a way that Bennett would call obnoxious and Mouse would call shit-eating, tapping at the collar semi-obscured by his jacket, “but I am a Father.”

Verity collapses against the desk, groaning. “Oh my _God_ I am never picking up extra shifts ever again,” as Marcus laughs and laughs and laughs.

Somewhere in the back, he hears a door click. “Verity? Is everything alright out there?”

Muffled through her arms, she yells “you have a client, Tomas, take him away from me before my soul dies.”

“Now, there’s no need to be dramatic-” Marcus begins to say before his tongue turns to lead.

A man, wearing the same kind of pastel pink polo but _considerably_ better walks towards him. His arms are ridiculous. His face is ridiculous.

“I apologize for Verity’s manners,” he says with a voice that is _ridiculous_ , reaching out a hand. “We’re working on professional conduct.”

Marcus makes some kind of noise in affirmation and manages to shake his hand. It is a very warm hand. Soft. Good grip.

“I’m Tomas.” He says as he releases Marcus’ hand, much to his immediate regret. “First time client, yes?”

Marcus rallies. “What gave me away?”

Tomas smiles over the paperwork Marcus had completed as his eyes scan it over. “We’re fairly new, and there’s only one other therapist that works here. I don’t have the best memory for faces, but I’m sure I’d remember you.”

Verity makes a rude noise from the desk and Marcus catches her marking a tally on a piece of paper as he turns, catches a stern look from Tomas in her direction.

“So,” Tomas says, clearing his throat. “Why don’t you come in?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus gets a fucking massage, eventually, and thinks almost exclusively in simile.

He follows Tomas down a short hallway that smells like something herbal and holistic; eucalyptus or sage or some shit that’s supposed to make you feel calm but just reminds Marcus with every breath that he doesn’t belong here. He can’t even focus on the shift of muscle in Tomas’ back he’s so keyed up, which seems like a waste, even if it would mean some light self beratement later, the clink of rosary beads between his fingers as _Hail Mary_ runs over his tongue like wind through leaves, natural, easy.

Tomas ushers him into a room with the warm wash of light that would make sense in a home, after the clatter of dishes and bustle of dinner, before bed, muddying the boundary between shadows. Standing prominently in the centre of the room is a massage table, and the single moment that Marcus thought that he could handle this when he’s dealt with Legion, holding only his will and a bible and God’s unrelenting, prevailing love, dissipates to mist in the wake of claxons. There’s a single fluorescent light in Marcus’ cell that flickers whenever Sister Maria plugs in her contraband blow-dryer. Marcus was bought for five pounds before he hit puberty, stick thin and angry and beaten, and nothing’s changed in the last forty years. He isn’t worth this.

“Actually,” Marcus says, backing towards the door. “I’ve just remembered I’ve got somewhere to be. Sorry about the imposition, I’ll just-” and he means to nod his head towards the exit, but he gets caught halfway by the tripping jangle of his nerves in alarm, a long muscle reaching from the base of his head to the base of his spine tightening further at the movement.

There’s no way Tomas can miss the hiss, the faltering movement of flesh pulled tight, and his expression, professionally warm and distant, melts to concern that makes Marcus’ stomach fall, acid with shame. “Woh, woh-” Tomas’ hands raised placatingly, like Marcus is a fucking feral dog that snarled- “Marcus. I mean, Father Marcus? Please, wait.”

Marcus waits, and he tells himself it’s because he can’t bloody move. “If you are… uncomfortable with a male therapist, I can schedule you in when our other employee is here but.” He pauses, bites at his lip as if it will give him the words he’s plodding through. “You appear to be in a lot of pain,” he says carefully. “If nothing else before you leave today, please let me help. I can guide you through some stretches to help relieve tension, or, or something.”

Marcus chews at the inside of his cheek, wishes he had something to fiddle with. “Bet you don’t often have to convince clients to stay.”

Tomas smiles, a shy thing that is absolutely halting, like waking to the soft patter of rain. He can’t imagine Tomas having to convince anyone of anything. “Not often.”

“I’m.” Marcus blows out a breath, looking at a painting of lotuses, what the _hell_ , that hangs over Tomas’ shoulder. “Not. I haven’t done this before.”

Tomas’ smile tweaks closer to sardonic as he says “clearly,” before his eyes widen in shocked apology. “-shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

It startles a laugh out of Marcus, and he feels tension begin to ebb out through his feet, like a falling tide. “My God, the customer service in this country.”

“I’m sure back in your day people had proper respect for their elders,” Tomas says dryly as Marcus presses a wounded hand to his heart. “But,” Tomas’ eyes turn dewy and mournful in the space of a millisecond, begging trust, admitting fault, and Marcus can’t help but curse whoever let this man interact with the public without a warning sign, “I took an oath to do no harm. I will do my utmost to make this a stress free experience that heals whatever pain you are in.”

Christ. Marcus clears his throat, lets his gaze settle firmly on Tomas, sees peripherally the firm set of his mouth. “Well, when you put it like that.”

Tomas looks unspeakably relieved. Business must be slow. “Great. Let’s get started.”

 

* * *

 

Tomas leaves him, all smiles, with the lights dimmed and instructions to strip down to his skivvies before getting under the sheets, face down. It’s not quite… appropriate, or even sensical to worry about getting practically naked, and Marcus doesn’t own any underwear that even a blind man would call nice, but he can’t help but wish he was wearing a pair that were less dingy, or had a waistband that hadn’t given out ages ago and slid down too low on his hips without his belt holding them up.

Pulling his shirt over his head takes too too long, all halting sting. He’s undressed and about to crawl onto the bed, when he realizes his socks are still on, has to stand back up and peel them off, feeling a right fool. He’s half a mind to call the whole thing off (again) when his leg brushes against the blanket neatly spread over the table. It’s very soft. He runs a hand over it, against and with the grain in turn, and feels something nameless and shapeless settle inside him. Nonsensically, his breath comes out a shudder, he thinks, okay, okay.

Gingerly, he worms his way under the covers, reaches down to pull his boxers back down his legs from where they’ve bunched up, wiggles his way up to the top of the table, rests his head against his hands. It’s fucking _heated_ , and the sheets are butter soft on his skin, the kind you might imagine in a luxury hotel. He could just spend the hour here and call it a win.

There’s a knock on the door. “Marcus, are you decent?”

“As I ever am,” is muffled into his arms, and he hears Tomas open the door, shutting it quietly behind him. There is shuffling somewhere else in the room, the slow fade-in of song weaving through the room, piano and the long drawn out hum of bells. Marcus is unspeakably glad it’s not weird appropriative ohms and birdsong, and he’d mutter some joke about it if the edges of his body and the table weren’t currently fading into each other, if not for the easy heat.

“Okay,” Tomas says in a hush Marcus might expect in confession. “I’ll start with light pressure, and work my way up. If it hurts, you need to tell me.” Marcus mumbles wordlessly in response and that must be enough, because the blanket is being peeled back to lay double over his arse and legs, leaving just the sheet which lays soft, soft. Then there are Tomas’ hands, running down his back like lathes through the sheet, increasing pressure with every sweep down. “So,” he says, like he isn’t inverting Marcus’ whole world in moments, without his skin on his skin, “it looks like you’ve got a lot of stress in your back, so we’ll start there today. Depending on your schedule and lifestyle,” he says, pressing his thumbs along the divets of Marcus’ vertebrae, pair by pair, “you might need a follow-up. Do you, uh-” his path falters for a moment to work against some terrible knot, repetitively digging into the muscle before smoothing over it, wide palmed- “Do you want me to narrate?”

Marcus isn’t sure what sound he makes in response from where he’s floating, but whatever it is makes Tomas laugh, a single huff that makes warmth trickle through Marcus’ rib-cage. “This part may be unusual, so I’ll keep it up for now. I’m going to start at your pelvic bone to release some of the tension in your lower back. Remember, speak up if you’re uncomfortable.” And then he is driving the ball of his thumb into Marcus’ arse, soft at first, then harder. It _hurts_ but it is so, so good, and Marcus struggles to stay still in the onslaught of it, to not exhale deeply, body unsure if it wants to press back into Tomas or away from him.

“Pressure okay?” The heel of Tomas’ hand presses into the hollow of Marcus’ pelvis and up.

“Fine.” Marcus garbles hoarsely. “‘s fine.”

He thinks that it’s over, that he has a moment to force ease before the next horrible wonderful thing when Tomas starts on the other side and the breath catches in his throat. Hold on, hold on, he chants in his head, strung up between suffering and apoplectic pleasure.

He makes it through, only for Tomas to pull up the sheet and tuck it into his non-existent waistband, makes it through only to hear the slick sound of oil on another’s hands, totally unlike the sound of chrism on his own.

From then on it is a haze of pain and wonder, being pummeled by Tomas’ ministrations and stroked smooth by his fingers in turn. Marcus isn’t sure if the muscle over his shoulder blades had ever been anything but strung tight, but an eternity of Tomas kneading at it allows the muscle to lay flat over bone. At some point he must have turned over, because eventually the weight of Tomas’ hands on his neck disappears and his eyes flutter open in confusion, bereft, to see Tomas placing the oil on a side table, dimming the lights even further, and not his own arms, blurred in their closeness.

“How are you feeling, Marcus?” It is quiet. Marcus wants the weight of Tomas’ words on his tongue.

He blinks slowly, slurs, “a lot less like I got thrown into a wall.”

There is a pause, and Marcus knows he should worry about pauses, but he can’t reach worry now, permanently misplaced. He thinks about running his fingers over the thin skin under Tomas’ eyes, eyes closing, the murmur of prayer as Marcus crosses his forehead, his lips in blessing.

“..Good. That’s our hour. I’ll meet you at reception. Take your time getting up.” There is the metallic click of the door closing shut, and just Marcus again, alone, warm.

He should get up. He does, knees wobbly and feeling a bit drunk, to be honest, but when Marcus carefully turns his head side to side he can actually turn it, albeit uncomfortably. He fumbles into his clothes, and they feel the wrong kind of heavy.

It feels like sleepwalking, but he gets to reception to find Tomas with a tight smile and Verity making a face. “Was it good for you?” She says snidely, and Marcus’ brain isn’t working quite fast enough to quip back.

Tomas’ face darkens. “Verity, take your break.”

Verity rolls her eyes as she twists out of her chair. “Ugh, whatever. Bye Father DILF.” She calls out, saluting him as she walks down the hall. When he looks back, Tomas has a hand pressed to the bridge of his nose. That hand had touched Marcus.

“I apologize. Verity is… in a mood.” He finishes lamely. “How’s your back?”

Words are far away right now, but he manages to grab one, just one. “Good.”

“Okay. Good, good.” Tomas parrots. He looks uncomfortable. “Be sure to drink plenty of water to help flush out the inflammation. If you’re-” Tomas frowns deeply before his face slides back to professionally warm. “If you still have difficulty moving in a couple of days, I’d recommend coming back in. Now, how are you paying today?”

Marcus hands him the card he filched from Bennett last time he visited and tips heavily. Tomas passes back a receipt and some business cards which Marcus shoves into his jacket pocket without looking, walks dazed to the convent and drinks a tall glass of water before passing out face first on his bed, and sleeps dreamlessly, the echo of kind touch ringing through his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is basically just a long form callout for myself. Get a goddamn massage, dude, your neck is not supposed to work like that.
> 
> please let me know what you think!! This is a very unusual personal experiment.
> 
> as a final very important note, learning the word "gyzym" in my early teens has almost completely tarnished the word chrism for me. How do people say it with their human mouths. how.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Marcus wakes up with his face mashed against his pillow and ice water dribbling down his neck. He tilts his neck the least amount necessary and cracks open an eye. Then has to try again, because he opened the one still smushed against the sheets. It is no secret that Marcus is quick or particularly erudite in waking. Head lit saintly by the _hideous_ scoop light on the ceiling is Bernadette. In her hand, a perspiring glass is tilted to an angle more obtuse.

“You’re getting meaner with age,” he grouses as he turns his face fully back into the pillow, ignoring the now fairly insistent stream of water.

The glass is upturned over his head and he sputters, before rolling up to sit with his back against the headboard. He’s slept in rougher conditions, but Bernadette doesn’t need encouragement in escalation. She clicks her tongue and sails out of the room, looking pointedly at the clock before she goes. He has some time before they start in on Roland again. Might as well go about the ol’ morning ablutions. Evening ablutions. Whatever. Time doesn’t run the same for those in the church as those outside it.

He’s nicked Sister Maria’s froofy shower gel from her wash-up basket and is whistling his way down the hall cheerily when he notices that he _isn’t_ in agony with every step. He’s sore, terribly fucking sore, but in the good bone tired way, as opposed to he’d be terribly fucking boned way from before. Hm.

There is a brief pang of regret as he washes the scent of oil and the residual touch of another’s hands from his skin. He drowns it out with Etta, and gets ready for his day.

 

* * *

 

The demon inhabiting Roland, of course, digs into Marcus’ little spa retreat as soon as Sisters Zeta and Beatrice drag him into the circle.

“Treating yourself, Marcus?” It sneers through the gaps it’s left in Roland’s teeth. “You know better than that. There are people that deserve and people that don’t, and you’ve made a compelling argument for not deserving much but a kick in the head.”

“Time and date of your departure?” Marcus replies pleasantly, as the nuns repeat coaxial forgiveness.

“That’s the funny thing about kids that follow in their daddy’s footsteps. Or Daddy upstairs. Too much wrath gets to you. Makes you the thing that made you cower scared in the first place.”

“Do you ever feel like we're having two separate conversations?” he says, pressing his rosary to the thing's forehead. Like a goddamn panini press, it sizzles, but the demon doesn’t flinch. The smell of fat fills the air, greasy, and it turns his stomach.  
  
“Do you ever feel like you're out of joint with reality? Two steps off from the rest of the crowd, old and out of touch and unloved?” It cocks its head, eyes searching. “Untouched too, mostly, if you don't count an errant friar or two and whoever's got your panties in a twist.” It laughs delightedly as Marcus struggles to tamp down on whatever expression tries to take hold of his face. “I hope you didn't put out. Can't be much good at it with no practice, and no one likes a fifty year-old prude.”  
  
“Come on,” Marcus says, affronted. “you're in a room _full_ of fifty year-old prudes. Did you really think that was gonna sting?” And he steps back, letting Mother Bernadette press her forehead against its own, her voice following calm and measured as her steps, as Marcus backs up, lets his voice join in the chorus. Ignores the unsteady churn in his gut.

* * *

  
Unfortunately, demons.  
  
The phrase works all by itself more or less regardless of context, and is more or less the keystone of Marcus’ life. Some days it runs as: ‘unfortunately, demons have taken away your chance of sleeping any time this week good luck with that!’ More often; ‘unfortunately, demons are more or less responsible for your purpose on earth and isn’t that fucking sad,’ and occasionally, more esoterically, ‘unfortunately, demons have possessed someone you love and you’re going to have a _hell_ of a time dealing with the aftermath, _zing_ , got a real creative pun in there.’

Today, the phrase plays in neon with a seasonal tagline in the marquee of his mind, unignorable. Unfortunately, demons spend so much time spewing utter tripe out their mouths that something's bound to catch eventually, to hook into the vulnerable grey matter where thoughts run over and over themselves, tangling delicate chains of neurons and synapses into repetitive misfire.  
  
It would be wrong to say Marcus is conflicted about God. He can’t be. God saw him in that filthy fucking hole, filled with shadows and terror and saw that he could be _used_ , a gun in the dark. And he never really grew into the nose or the face or the anything, really, and he had a purpose, so the whole flesh business was never an issue except for during a confession when he had to admit to wanking before matins.  
  
But.  
  
Recently he spent an hour with another man lovingly pummeling his riotous muscle into something resembling tranquility. He has some questions.  
  
There's only one place he can turn.  
  
“What.” Bennett says through the fog of static.  
  
“Bennett, have you ever made love?”  
  
There is a sound that Marcus, at his best guess, would say is the sound of a phone being thrown at a wall by the arm that makes Bennett the most sought after pitcher in the Vatican’s annual picnic/softball tournament.

  
When Marcus can no longer laugh through the stream of tears running down his face and the tired clench of his abdomen, he rings Bennett's office from the convent's landline.  
  
“Yes?” he says, and to Bennett's credit, does not sound like a man that's just undergone severe trauma.  
  
"Bennett, I'm having some thoughts, and my body's doing strange things. What's going on?"  
  
He makes a strangled sound before slamming the phone down. Respectful of church property, that Bennett. He rings Mouse instead. 

“Mouse, sweetheart, how are you, how’s the road, got time to chat?” He twists the landline’s cord around his fingers, curl by curl, and pops his feet up on the desktop, settles into the curve of the chair.

She makes an amused sound. “Is it whatever you talked to Bennett about that made him ask me if I’d shoot a non-possessed person between the eyes?”

A warm fuzzy feeling flushes from his heart to the tips of his toes. “It’s nice to know he cares, innit.”

“Hmm, a perfect balance of all our needs. Your death wish, his death wish, my..” Mouse pauses for a long time, and Marcus hears oddly percussive thumps through the speaker. “... skillset.” She finishes breathlessly.

“Sorry, did I interrupt?”

Mouse scoffs and Marcus can picture the scorn that oozes from every inch of her, despite the countless unknown miles between them. God, does he miss her. “The issue here isn’t worth my full attention. Devon’s losing his touch in his old age.”

He makes a face in response and she laughs as if she’s in the room with him. “Eurgh, don’t call him that. Makes him sound like a regency dandy.”

There’s another long pause that sounds thoughtful despite some unfortunate tearing and squelching noises that echo tinnily. “I can imagine him in those dumb breeches though. I bet Devon would be all about that velvet business.” She cackles through his retching noises, and waits ‘til he’s quieted down to speak again. “Marcus. I do like hearing from you. It’s like looking down and seeing a wart you just got scraped off for the ninetieth time reappearing. But I only have so many international minutes. Get on with it.”

“...what do you think about celibacy?” comes out weakly, from where it’s been stuck in his throat for days.

“Depends on whether or not you’ve talked to your husband about having an open relationship.”

He teases, tries to get back on solid ground. “What a way with words. Can’t believe anyone ever thought you were shy.”

“Yeah, well.” She sighs impatiently. “Didn’t take too long with you to get screwed up permanently.” There is a long beat where there is nothing but their breathing, the shared ache of an old wound. “I gotta go. Tell Devon I’m causing a diplomatic disaster if it’ll make you feel better. I’ve got work to do.”

She hangs up.

Marcus leans back in the chair with the phone cradled against his ear long enough for it to ring impatiently and fall silent. To hear the clock chime nine times.

There’s work to do.

 

* * *

 

Somehow, he ends up outside the clinic again anyway, just like before, lurking outside the door and unable to go in, unable to go back.

There’s a push at his back that there wasn’t before. A push that feels like something he hasn’t felt near him since Mexico. Wetness wells in his eyes that he brushes away roughly. He’s already going to be the weird old man that always stops in; he can’t be the weird old _crying_ man that always stops in.

He opens the door with a grip that does not waver. There’s a kid at the desk with huge sunglasses and earbuds in, head tilted to the side. Tomas is behind him, a warm broad hand on his shoulder as he speaks. When the bell jingles, Tomas looks up, a professional smile melting to something less so. It fills Marcus like a vessel, warm milk and honey, manna in the desert. He shoves his hands back into his pockets, one hand crumpling around a carefully plotted list. He’s got this.

“Father Marcus!” Tomas says genially, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I was wondering if we’d see you back.”

“Ableist.” The kid mutters, and Tomas jostles his shoulder warningly, gives him a look that reads fond and exasperated even to a stranger. Marcus’ stomach lurches.

Yep. He’s got this handled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey uh, a blind character appears in this chapter for .2 seconds and does make a joke about ableist language. I don't think I'm being a jerk, but please, please let me know if I am.
> 
> Mouse causing a minor diplomatic incident is a shoutout to the frankly incredible  
> [I sent you three boats](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13632864) by [ reckonedrightly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reckonedrightly/pseuds/reckonedrightly) which you should check out if you haven't already. Run!!! Don't walk!!!


	4. Chapter 4

 

The convent keeps its computer at a desk in the common room, and it serves its purpose with the doddering speed of an electronic device slowly trodding to its death. It’s boxy, beige, and running Windows ‘98, which is remarkable only in the sense that Marcus can remember Bennett twitching near imperceptibly in pleasure back _in_ 1998, eyes shining with something close to joy as Marcus stared on in horror. It’s very classically Catholic, in that it meets a need, and requires you to feel furtive and guilty and bloody _observed_ , even if you’re just searching for directions or how long you need to boil an egg, back open and unguarded to the rest of the room.

Luckily, Marcus has no shame. Well, no. That’s not true.

Luckily, Marcus has very specific and suffocating shame that dogs his every step and keeps him from sleeping too deeply even in places he’s pretty sure he won’t get knifed in the dark, but through long exposure and embarrassment, he’s not ashamed when blasted Sister Walpurgawhatshername sifts through the browser’s search history, glasses perched on the end of her nose as she takes note on who’s most wasted the convent’s extremely limited bandwidth.

He thinks back fondly on when Mouse blew into town a few months back and they watched spotty ill defined football, sloshing beer everywhere, barely able to discern the players from the field as they shouted and heckled across the great internet divide, and Sister Whisperwillow fell into paroxysms of rage when she saw the bill and the suds that’d splashed on the keyboard, leaving it sticky and smelling like the floor of a pub.

Henpecking across the keyboard, Marcus types in, ‘How to love yourself’ and has to violently backspace the search bar blank, take a minute sitting in the wooden chair that gives him a crick in his back and breathes himself calm. Start small. Start solvable. He settles on the much less terrifying ‘how to get used to people touching you,’ and sifts uncomfortably through forums and pages of people dealing with the aftermath of abuse and mistreatment. It feels wrong to be taking advice meant for people that actually need help, people who have really suffered. That’s not. That’s not Marcus.

If he googles ‘how to not get an erection during a massage’ after he’s done, it’s only to drive Sister Whomever up the goddamn wall.

The long and short of it is, Marcus put himself away a long time ago. Took away the chance of thought and action that let him be human in ways that could hurt. He could still take refuge in a smoke or a beer or a song, but he made an insensate deal with himself when he tested the heft of the hammer in the palm of his hand, the weight pulling him down shoulder and neck and palm. So he didn’t huddle with the other boys, and he didn’t let pretty girls who looked at him with eyes that danced do any more than look. Became a geezer whose eyes crossed over and brain fizzled out when a pretty boy doing his goddamn job just _did his job_.

Thus, Marcus writes his fucking list, and makes a fucking plan, and cradles Roland’s face even as blisters rupture underneath his touch and the demon laughs its goddamn ass off and tried to bite a chunk out of his hand and more or less manages. Later, when it’s quieted and the nuns have tucked it away snug as a bug for the day, Bernadette sits with him as he stitches himself up.

“This one’s particularly prescient, eh?” He grinds through his teeth as Bernadette grabs his injured hand and practically douses it in disinfectant. “Don’t give me that look. A bit of infection’s good for the soul.”

Bernadette makes a face like she’d prefer banging her head against concrete over spending time with him. But she does take the needle from his shaking grip, and holds him gently, firm enough that he can’t jerk from her grasp but not hard enough to sting. The cruel hook of the needle seems to fit with her, between her fingers it loses any maliciousness that it had when Marcus held it. He’s quiet as she finishes up, half need and half reluctance.

As she tucks the bandage into itself, he grasps her hand in both of his, lets the ache at her surprise flow through him and doesn’t let it settle.  “Thanks love.” Marcus says, and is horribly glad she can’t say anything back, that she only squeezes his hands in return, careful of his hurt.

 

* * *

 

“Tomas, I need to schedule one of your finest, please. This week, if you can.” He leans on the counter, and winks. Tomas flushes gratifyingly, and his eyes flick down at the creak of leather when Marcus shifts his weight.

The kid is unmoved. “Have you heard of the phone?”

“Caleb.” Tomas scolds, but it seems half-hearted.

Marcus grins. “With employees this charming, how could I miss an opportunity to speak to you in person?”

Caleb scowls deeply. “More charming than you, asshole.”

“Caleb.” Tomas repeats wearily, as if this is a road he’s gone down countless times before. “Don’t you remember our conversations about politeness when you’re working?”

The tilt of the kid’s chin turns surly. “I remember, I just don’t give a shit.”

Tomas looks like he’s suffering of apoplexy. Marcus is _so_ delighted, and his grin broadens into something people would generally call 'terrible to behold,' but the kid’s face doesn’t shift at all in response. He lets his voice go as warm as he thinks he’ll get away with in the face of teenage moodiness. “Mate, I wasn’t being funny. Genuinely, big fan. Repeat customer and everything. You and Verity have a particular brand of reception that I can get behind.” He looks up at Tomas. “Your boss ain’t half bad either.”

Caleb’s frown becomes less sullen despite an apparently good effort to stay pissed as hell. “You’ve met Verity?”

“Yep.” Marcus says, popping the ‘p.’ “None of that pretentious nonsense. She did her job and I got a massage and some new vocab out of the deal. Did you know looking up DILF is a terrible, terrible, thing to do?” It startles a laugh out of the kid, and when Marcus glances away to Tomas, he looks torn between stepping out to grab an advil and stepping out into traffic. It’s odd that Marcus always engenders that reaction in others. Maybe that’s been God’s true gift all along.

“Oh shit,” Caleb says around a grin that doesn’t look like it’s had much practice. “You’re the priest? _You’re_ Father DILF.”

“‘snot my Christian name, but sure. Father Marcus, at your service.” Tomas makes a noise like a dying walrus and steps away with a hand pinching the bridge of his nose, presumably to gather his thoughts and bemoan his existence. “Got a hand you can shake at twelve o’clock, if you’re of a mind.”

The kid pauses for a moment, but sticks his hand out and Marcus gently course corrects his own hand so that Caleb’s meets his without fuss. “I’m Caleb,” he says, jerking his chin down towards his chest. “I don’t wanna assume you can read the name-tag if you can’t use a phone.”

Marcus laughs as he releases Caleb’s hand. “It was tough enough going from carving on stone tablets to the telegraph. You can’t expect me to keep up with the new fads, can you?”

“Guess not. I’ve heard Tomas text and he’s terrible at it. You can hear full seconds between letters. And he’s only like, medium old.” He pauses. “Does he have your number?”

“Okay,” Tomas says, looking a little wild around the eyes. “You said you wanted an appointment Father Marcus? Caleb, why don’t you pull up the calendar?” It isn’t phrased like a request.

Caleb’s head moves in a way that, despite the sunglasses, indicates a huge teenage eye roll. “Yes, mein fuhrer.” Tomas pinches at the bridge of his nose again, glancing apologetically back at Marcus. Caleb begins fiddling with a little keyboard, running his finger over refreshing braille. “Do you want one today?”

Marcus blinks. “Sure.”

“Cool. Hey, Tomas.” Caleb’s mouth turns mischievous. “You have an appointment in five.”

“Of course.” Tomas says, smiling tightly. “Father Marcus, would you follow me?”

Marcus does, and waits ‘til they’re ostensibly out of earshot before grasping Tomas by the shoulder, briefly, before letting go. “Did I fuck up? Should I go?”

Tomas looks up at him (barely, by an inch or three, but Marcus can’t believe he didn't notice before, or how he feels his ears getting warm), startled. “What? No. No. I’m sorry. I’ve just… had a headache.” He finishes lamely.

Marcus crooks a smile. “Well, teenagers.”

Tomas huffs a laugh. “Tell me about it.”

 

* * *

 

“How was it?” Caleb says as he staples Marcus’ receipt to some cards Tomas shoved insurreptitiously into Caleb’s grasp.

“Tomas is a master of the massaging arts.” He says, mock serious. “I may never trust another after his capable hands.”

Caleb makes an odd sound, like he’s trying to swallow a laugh. “Huh.”

“Caleb, it’s break time.” Tomas announces loudly from behind the counter.

“Yes sir.” Caleb sounds strangled. He feels for his cane which had been leaned against the desk, and is gone, walking down the hallway and closing a door behind him with a noticeable slam.

“So.” Tomas says forcefully, like a matador waving a red cape. “Be sure to drink plenty of water, and do those stretches we talked about.” His eyes flicker to the bandage still wound tight around Marcus’ hand. “If you have any questions, or need help, please. Feel free to call.”

Marcus snorts cheerfully. “I’m not quite at the throwing my back out stage yet, but thanks.” He waves and leaves, bell tinkling cheerfully as he goes, and can’t help but feel he’s missing something.

  * ~~_Try initiating light, controlled, physical contact with someone you trust_~~
  * ~~_Massages are a great way to get more acquainted with physical contact in a controlled setting with no expectations of you_~~



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey cool fucking kill me for writing a fic that requires the use of hand/hands/HANDS so goddamn much.
> 
> The refreshable braille screen is a real thing and Caleb would also probably need to input voice commands but uhhhhhhhhh ~*~fiction~*~
> 
> Please let me know what you think! I now have an actual PLOT OUTLINE SOOOO hold on 2 ur pants xoxo
> 
> (ps do watch jesus christ superstar and wail over ben daniels' goddamn unbelievable fucking outfit )


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus makes his way down the list.

Weeks and then months pass, in that curious way where days can last forever, and the week plods on, quickslow, a blur of peeling off bile-stained shirts and learning about what precisely a glitter bomb is from Verity, and sending three to Bennett in quick succession and- suddenly it’s no longer February or even March. The sludge of mud, gravel, and slow melting ice is erased by warm winds and longer days.

Marcus’ months are full and endless. The demon leaves Roland, finally, and Marcus cradles Roland as he cries, shocked to own his body again, the only inhabitant in an unlonely house. A muscle in his back that he’d thought was bone for the past decade due to its unrelenting rigidity is smoothed out by Tomas’ warm and distant care. And Marcus is haunted at least once a week by the vivid ghost of Tomas’ bloody _lotion holster._ He’s never even seen Tomas touch it; his eyes are firmly shut from the time he crawls under the sheets to the moment Tomas tells him to take his time before closing the door gently behind him. But the sound of slick against his palms, the sheer repetitive muscle memory of Tomas smoothing oil into his skin, the flicker of Marcus’ unruly gaze to Tomas’ hands when they rest against the counter, when he clasps Marcus’ forearm as they say hello and goodbye.

Well.

He didn’t think it was possible for a fifty year old man to get it up so often. He’s said a _lot_ of Hail Mary’s recently. (Embarrassed and frankly a little concerned, he needed an information source, and had tried to use the computer in the common room. Walpurga had changed the password on him. An extremely petty war had ensued that eventually ended up in her standing over his shoulder staring bloody murder as he searched up “how old too old wet dreams help??” and ended up in her mouth thinning until her lips were lost to the void of flesh that hung loose from her cheeks, an armistice, her teaching him how to clear his browser history, and Marcus promising to hack away at the blackberry brambles that had been threatening to swallow up the south wall of the convent for a decade in penance. Walpurga had started making a habit of setting up a lawn chair as he sweated and cursed and cut his hands to shit, a broad floppy sun hat pulled over her wimple in what the teens, apparently, called ‘A Look.’ Sometimes she had iced tea so cold it made the glass sweat. She never looked directly in his direction as she flipped idly through Lexio, but he could sense her dark pleasure extremely loudly. Walpurga was the worst.)

More importantly, there is touch. There is Bernadette, whacking him gently, with clear intent and slow enough to stop if he flinches on the shoulder, his flank. One night as Ella croons of _witchcraft, wicked wicked witchcraft_ , he is struck by just feeling _good_ , of energy trying to burst out the seams of his skin, and he grabs Bernadette by the hand. They waltz clumsily, spinning too fast or too slow as they nearly laugh themselves sick, her skin cool and dry as she tries to lead him through dances half-remembered from decades ago.

There is Caleb and his over-complicated secret handshake that he demands Marcus fumble his way through if he wants to make an appointment, and crows, delighted, when Shelby rats Marcus out for begging him to practice. Truck, who he sees the least often of the kids, who wants a bear hug approximately half of the time and distance the other. Verity’s steady grip on his wrist and the back of his hands as she paints his nails a violent glittering purple.

In the interest of _not_ being a creepy old man, he does not count Tomas on his list of successes. Tomas is a medical professional who has made it very clear that his relationship with Marcus is that of caregiver and patient. Tomas, who keeps giving him business cards that he shoves in his pocket and forgets to look at before throwing his jeans in the wash. When Tomas smiles or frowns or looks like a kicked angry puppy when he gently turns over Marcus’ thorn scratched hands and just looks more kicked when Marcus explains about the blackberries, it is a professional transaction. Marcus is having a tough time remembering that. He firmly does not think of him. He regrets thinking the word _firmly_ in conjunction with _Tomas_ , because there is suddenly visions of forearms and shoulders and _gah_ , Tomas is _not_ to be thought of in regards to the list.

In regards to the list. Hm. Well. The next part is hard, innit? It takes a lot of nerve. Masturbation has almost exclusively been a chore, a need that is fulfilled quickly and bloodlessly, in the shower for preference so the smell of spunk doesn’t linger in his cell. Marcus could count on one hand, _ha_ , the times he’d seen porn. Couldn’t (wouldn’t) count the times he’d fantasized about someone sturdier than him pressing him down, heavy in the best way as he writhed, or the slither of silken hair against his chest as a pretty woman grinned as she moved lower, lower. Those times left Marcus angry and rattled, looking to hurt until someone else’s hurt matched his own. Didn’t count the brief press of Mouse’s mouth on his own (four, once with her tongue sliding clumsily but clever against his own). Could count two hands that’d touched his dick (his own).

Christ, but there was no _privacy_. Even if Marcus wanted to, nuns were up at all hours of the day and night, and he’d just be psyching himself up, hand sliding agonizingly slow down his stomach when he’d hear the bloody hyenas cackle, or someone slamming the door behind them, another humming on and off as she walked down the hall slipper soft. The list burns hot against his palm, and he wilts, promises another night, another.

Until one night, the cell block is blessedly quiet. Everyone is either asleep or elsewhere. Marcus feels oddly breathless, like every inch of him is awake as his gut tingles in anticipation. He doesn’t let himself start berating or cursing at his worthlessness, just slides his sweatpants down and kicks them off his feet. Lets the sheet drape over him like light. Doesn’t let his mind wander to the best sheets he’s ever felt, a voice sliding through stillness about how he feels, the pressure of someone else. Keeps his mind focused on the task at hand (double ha), and almost snorts aloud at that one.

He jerks himself off slowly, sudden starts and stops as he lets himself feel, not think about how stupid this is, just lets himself feel, and feel, and press his teeth hard against his lip when pleasure shocks. Doesn’t let himself think _lewd_ as he runs his thumb over where wetness is gathering, just lets himself slick it over himself and wonder at the sudden smooth slide of his cock through his fist. Why did he never let himself do this before? It isn't long before he loses track of his thoughts and his mind burns too bright. He comes. Fumbles for a tissue at his bedside to wipe himself clean, and falls asleep, dreamless, with no time for loathing.

And if when he dreams, he is softly edgeless with his heart filling every part of him as Tomas murmurs _let me, let me_ , that’s the subject of a whole other list.

 

* * *

 

  * ~~Make some time with a five fingered friend~~



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have nothing to say for myself.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus gets his secret garden on. No, it's not that kind of metaphor.

Bennett sends him the Bennett equivalent of a dead rat through the mail- a cease and desist he’s  _soaked_ in a floral perfume that makes Marcus’ eyes water, and it is an excellent start to an excellent week. When he throws the box to the side, startled and horrified, some unseen compartment releases glitter in a sparkling aura that Marcus still hasn’t gotten out of the wood grain. Each tiny piece says _fuck off_ in rolling script. Marcus’ heart grows three sizes. It’s custom made. He carefully gathers some up in an envelope and tucks it away safe for Mouse to see next time they meet. It might be enough to make her smile. Lord knows Marcus hasn’t done much for her in that respect.

One morning, while dawn lays soft over the dwindling dark, he’s roused by Bernadette. Not by water applied directly to the face, oddly, but tea left on his bedside, hot to the touch, bitter on the tongue. She’s made it in the wrong order again, but it doesn’t matter in the between light, when Marcus is as dumb as she is, tongue leaded and iron wrought.

She’s got a bit of darning with her- some piece of tatty lace that looks like, at one point, it might’ve been the nice kind of frothy- almost too delicate to touch, no use besides its own beauty. He can see the uneven swelling in some of her knuckles that’s mirrored in his own sometimes. Usually thinking about his body’s rapid decay would rattle him into doing something stupid, but for now, he’s able to sit quiet, sipping at tea that’s weirdly watery despite its acidity, listening to birds chirp brightly as the world wakes up around them. She idly stitches as he rises from bed, pulls on a pair of jeans from the floor and a sweater from the laundry bin. He waits by the door until she stands, and follows where she leads.

In the garden, the soil is fertile black, damp with dew and the smell of green and growing things. In the early morning light, it is beautiful. Sparrows, dignified in their own right, hop from branch to branch and root in the ground for fallen seed, wings fluttering flashes of brown and white. The world is still, expectantly heavy. It feels a lot like God.

Bernadette drifts towards the garden. No, drifting isn’t the word. She seems... grounded, in a way. She moves elegantly as ever, but the press of her feet into the grass and dirt has weight, a steady roll of heel to toe and over again. He is struck, suddenly, by the realization that she isn’t wearing her wimple or tunic. Her hair is bound loosely at the base of her neck, and she wears a pair of unremarkable jeans, a nondescript shirt. Marcus can’t remember if he’s ever seen her out of habit. Can’t remember the last time he put on a cassock, or put on his collar as anything else but an afterthought. He thinks it might feel easy to feel out of place with his steel toes and a jumper that is more hole that wool among the blooming pansies if Bernadette was a vision in starched white and black. Wonders how she manages to say so much without opening her mouth.

It’s too easy to fall into repetitive useless thought from there. That he needs to be coddled. That he’s a fifty-something year old man that hasn’t figured out the basics of treating himself kindly, a man that has a face made for punching, a man with a long history of getting punched. That he’s tendon and blood and muscle and bone but not much else, a tool for getting the job done. Just on the edge of vision, he can see Bernadette waiting there, neither impatient or patient. Standing, waiting for him to untangle himself from the wagon rut of long practiced misery. Marcus wants to scream anyways, to push or rail or gnash his teeth.

However, lately, he’s trying this thing where he no longer has the patience for this nonsense. He’s not sure what God thinks about a gun without a bullet, but he’s not so certain that God thinks about him anyways, and he’s not wasting any more time on _this._

“Alright then Bernie,” he says, as she glares daggers (but  _mildly_ , like dull-edged practice daggers that indicate a deep indelible fondness), “what’d you get me up for?”

She sighs, as if deeply put-upon, and pushes him towards a part of the garden that is noteworthy only in the sense that it is very very dead, while around it, life burgeons, spills over, is fucking fecund and everywhere. Bernadette doesn’t bother giving him any significant looks, and Marcus doesn’t bother spouting any bull for the sheer joy of arguing. The lightening pink sky demands he give this moment the reverence it deserves.

Beside him, Bernadette is tightening her hair tie. She grabs work gloves from where they’d been sitting with a stack of gardening stuff that leans precariously against a wooden bench, and it hits his chest with a dull thwack. He grins, overbright, and his smile stretches impossibly further when she grins right back.

* * *

 

Marcus is well on his way to becoming a blissful haze where his flesh and thrice-damned ever circling thoughts used to be when Tomas makes an odd, disconsolate sound. Every muscle pulls tight as piano wire. Every neuron yells. Tomas makes a shushing sound and continues to smooth his hands over the plane of Marcus’ back. “Sorry, sorry. Relax. I’m just surprised. You haven’t been carrying as much tension recently.”

“Me? Tense?” Marcus says, muffled by the head rest. “I’ve never been tense in my life.”

Tomas snorts, an ungainly sound that Marcus wants to hear every moment of his life. He’s imagining the accompanying nose wrinkle and it’s devastating. “When you first came in I was surprised your spine hadn’t snapped underneath the stress.”

“My spine is perfectly adequate and you’ll do well not to malign it.”

Tomas hums, more in acknowledgement than agreement and Marcus is revving up for a good-natured row when Tomas presses his thumb into the intersect between rib and shoulder and spine. Marcus blanks out for a good half-second and when he’s bloody cognizant again, Tomas hums in sympathy. Good God. What did Marcus do. What sound did he make.

“See? There? The muscles are very tight. Have you been doing anything unusual lately?”

“Uh.” Stringing a sentence together is difficult with the, the touching, and the _kneading_. “Been gardening some.”

Tomas’ hands still for a moment. “Oh?” He sounds strangled.

Marcus laughs and aims for something in the realm of non-self deprecating. “‘S weird image, I know. Might mistake me for a beanpole. It’s, _hh-_ ” Tomas starts again, and the pressure along the jut of his shoulder blade has him strung between arching into his touch and away. “It’s been good. I’ve been helpful. The blackberries, you know, and the Prioress had me move in these _ah_ huge bags of mulch, and we- we planted seedlings and young trees and- _Christ_.” He feels some unfortunately timed tingles. “Can I shut up now?”

The next sweep of Tomas’ hands is light, smooth. It’s how Marcus might imagine an apologetic lover would touch. “Of course. This is your time.” And he says nothing else until he announces the hour is up, and Marcus can’t help but feel he’s misstepped, somehow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (long unedited fart sound)


	7. Chapter 7

His week starts with an exorcism that begins and ends, more or less, between blinks. A girl in her early twenties brought in by her girlfriend, the dried salt track of tears and knuckles gripped white. The girl, Maria, had been losing time for weeks. Shadows would split and follow her, reach out to curl around her ankles to make her fall. The girlfriend, Esfara, had found Maria on multiple occasions sitting against the kitchen wall, staring at the clock, unresponsive but smiling terribly as she left bloody trenches in her forearms, tissue and blood gathering thickly under her fingernails. Before the exorcism, the girls had tipped their foreheads together, the coins dangling from the edges of Esfara’s hijab jingling like bells - small, clean, sharp. It cut through the silence of the basement, the prepared stillness of the nuns and Bernadette. It tugged at something underneath his rib-cage. He hoped, wildly, that it wouldn’t be messy, a terrible excision of a tumorous mass that left a crater in its wake and nightmares dragging on its heels. And against all probability, against all of his experience, Maria is fine. The demon is a sniveling wretched thing that was barely hanging onto her soul. Marcus watched as Bernadette brought her forehead against Maria’s, an echo of earlier love, and whispered _you are forsaken, you are forgiven, you are fearful, and you are loved._ They’d sent Maria and Esfara on their way before noon. Bernadette had had enough time to record a new voicemail inbox message before her daily hour was up.

Afterwards, Marcus filched some of bloody Walpurga’s iced tea and baked in the late spring sun. If he squinted, he could make out bees bumping gently against the blackberry leaves and each other as they moved from flower to flower, sticky pollen clinging to their legs and thorax. He’d brought out a sketchbook and pencil, but there was something about the air that left him lax. Lazy in a way that’s difficult to recall.

If he dug down deep enough, there’d still be a river of unrelenting thought and attention, the wariness that’s kept him alive and near rabid for decades. But above that, there is a blankness that he never imagined possible between his ears. His eyelids are heavy. The pencil rolls from his hand, barely noticed.

He sleeps. In his dream, Tomas holds a bowl. His fingers are sticky and stained purple, are nimble as they avoid the thistles and pluck blackberries from their stems. His neck is bare, and brown, and beautiful. Marcus cannot look away from the nape of it, where sweat has dampened his hair enough that it lays flat against his skin. In his dream, Marcus is not paralyzed or wooden or frozen, like he would in waking. He does not run. Instead he stands, and runs his fingers through Tomas’ hair, curves his palm around a solid shoulder. Tomas smiles as he turns. Presses a blackberry to Marcus’ lips, presses it in as they part. His fingers linger as Marcus chews, as it bursts sweet over his tongue. Tomas’ eyes drop as he swallows to the movement of Marcus’ throat. Index and middle pressing his lips against his teeth. Between them, the bowl is pressed sharply between their stomachs as it overflows.

Marcus wakes up, not with the dull thud of the glass falling to the ground, but the sound of a car misfiring a block over. His nose, beak that it is, feels hot and tender from the sun. The quiet from earlier is gone, and his pulse lurches and his thoughts are twisting, and running, running-

-he can’t sit _still_. It’s hours past and it still feels like his skin is too tight, like something tightens it with a winch as every moment passes. So he pulls on his jacket and walks, gives movement to the feeling. It doesn’t help, not really, but it gives him something to do while thinking constantly of nothing at all.

Without noticing beyond the endless churn of one foot over another, sidewalk, tarmac, and back again, he’s dogs years away from the convent and fucking parched. Lo and behold, on the horizon, a Starbucks.

It’s. Honestly, probably, the only time he’s had an emotion about Starbucks at all. As if to make up for the void of feeling, it appears to him now as an oasis in the desert. It is a paradise among hells. It is open until 11 and Marcus is planning on drinking his body weight in caffeinated beverages until then.

There’s the dull roar of crowded public places as soon as the door swings open, bringing with it a blast of AC chilled air and the smell of coffee. Marcus gets in line, and orders something that _sounds_ agreeable, iced, in deference to the sunburn that is bound to be a right pain in the ass sooner rather than later. When he’s picked up his drink, he’s startled to see Verity is behind him, with a grin he’d call dangerous. “Hey, Father Hotass. Come sit with us.”

“Us?” Marcus says, turning in the direction she’s jerked her head, and he sees all of the teenage reception crew, a bearded man who’s speaking intently to Tomas, whose face looks like a pinched lemon. Marcus begins to protest, saying they see enough of him at work, but Verity is already dragging him merrily, ice cubes clinking merrily in his drink as she digs her feet and pulls.

“Look who I found.” Verity says. It’s smug. She sounds very smug. Marcus should run, but he can’t imagine that’d look good. Also, her grip is iron. He’s hustled into the chair beside Tomas, facing the only other adult and Shelby to his right. Tomas’ face is beginning to look worryingly mulish. He is still blisteringly handsome despite this, and despite the food bank fun-run shirt he’s wearing. It’s very purple. It looks like a lawnmower attacked the sleeves and left the devastating curve where Tomas’ shoulders meet his arms bared to the world in a fit of pure evil.

Everyone’s turned towards him, like he’s on trial. The other man smiles, reserved, and puts out a hand to shake. “You must be Father Marcus. I’m Andy, the kids’ dad.”

Marcus shakes it. “The collar generally gives it away. You’ve got great kids. Didn’t know Tomas was one of them.”

This provokes a snort from Tomas, who still won’t look at him, and a laugh from Andy. “I’m not sure if you’re having a dig at me or him.”

He shrugs. “No reason it can’t be both.”

Tomas finally looks at him, from the corner of his eye. “Watch it, or I’ll start giving you the senior’s discount.”

“You could’ve been giving me a discount this whole time?” Marcus presses a wounded hand to his wounded chest. Across the table, Verity elbows Shelby in the ribs, giving him a Look. A Look that communicates better than words could, _look. Look at this ridiculous shit. Can you believe this ridiculous shit._ The quiet ember of contentment that was starting to grow in Marcus’ chest is snuffed out. The chair screeches horrifically beneath him as he gets up, and Truck winces. Marcus would like to apologize, but he can’t imagine being here a second longer than he has to be. “Well,” he says in a rush, “It was nice running into you, have a good evening.”

Caleb turns towards him, head cocked. “You aren’t leaving yet, are you?”

Marcus smiles and tries to make it reach his eyes. “Wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Andy is looking at him, face carefully communicating nothing at all. “You’re not intruding. We invited you over.”

“Come now.” Marcus says, waving a hand at the table. “None of these lot are on the clock. They’re not obligated to spend time with me.”

The clatter of the coffee shop seems very loud after that. Marcus’ eyes are fixed on the blue sky outside the window, and is reaching for something pithy to say before he can flee and self-flagellate in private, where God is the only one to witness his missteps. He’s still frantically thinking when a hand folds around his forearm- not heavy, but still warm- a presence not meant as imposition. Marcus looks down. It’s Tomas. Of course. It’s Tomas and his infinite well of bleeding kindness.

“Please.” He says carefully, like Marcus is a wren, easily spooked. “We’d like you to stay.”

Marcus looks at the others, who are carefully pretending that none of this is happening and holding flimsy conversation. He’s pretty sure he can hear Verity saying “The economy? The economy.” in varying tones with Shelby, who is pulling it off much better than she is. Andy is painstakingly explaining how to boil water to Caleb. Truck is the only genuine soul at the table, bless him, and is looking at Marcus like a puzzle to be solved.  Marcus looks at Tomas’ hand on his arm and is hit by knee-jerk memory, by the last time he saw those hands, stained and sticky, leaving purple traces along his neck and jaw, and is forced to sit down before he embarrasses himself.

“Sure.” He says tightly. “Couldn’t hurt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe how close I am to being away from teenagers for a WHOLE SUMMER and to celebrate, I include more teenagers in my dumb fucking fic. save me.
> 
> Truck BRIEFLY appears in this chapter, and I still haven't watched s2, and as far as I'm aware he's a person with autism?? If I have somehow treated Truck REAL WRONG please hit a brother up.


	8. Chapter 8

Marcus keeps his shoulders as relaxed as possible for the image of ease as his fingers tap an anxious beat against his leg safely underneath the table. Verity is whispering heatedly with Shelby, heads tucked close. Andy is still explaining how to boil water to an impossibly patient Caleb.

“So.” Marcus says, clearing his throat. “Do you lot always descend upon unsuspecting coffee shops like the plague?” It’s awkward. It’s a bad transition. He’s got nothing else.

Andy Kim is a kind, kind man. He laughs and shakes his head, looking ruefully at the many empty plates that litter the table. “We’re pretty good at cleaning out the pastry case. Comparing teenagers to locusts seems cruel to the locusts.”

“Hey!” Caleb interjects, indignant. “Tomas is way worse than us.”

Truck nods. “The pastrami incident.”

“Yeah, the pastrami incident.”

Marcus’ eyebrows raise so high it’s like they’re trying to leave the physical bounds of his forehead. “The pastrami incident.” He repeats flatly.

Tomas flushes and Marcus pinches himself to keep from blushing in response. “The kids exaggerate.”

“We do not.” Caleb says. “I couldn’t even _see_ the pastrami incident and I know that Tomas is the worst of us.” He jostles Andy. “Tell him.”

Andy winces. “Watch the elbow, Caleb. I kind of need my kidneys.”

“Tell him about the pastrami incident!”

“There was no pastrami incident!” Tomas near yells.

“That sounds like the protestation of a guilty man,” says Marcus, and watches as Tomas buries his head in his hands with a groan. His ears are very, very pink, and Marcus is distracted by the nonsensical urge to bite them.

“I mean, the kids exaggerate,” Andy says, “but not that much. Truck, do you wanna set the scene?”

It’s a solemn duty. Truck settles himself in his chair like he’s preparing to give testimony. “It was a Sunday. Tomas made us do community cleanup. It was 90 degrees, and we went down three miles of river. Andy made us wear rubber boots.”

“ _Filled_ with sweat.” Caleb interrupts. “It was like, sock soup.”

“Hey.” Andy spreads his palms wide. “Better than shoes filled with mud.”

He frowns. “You weren’t the one with sock soup.”

Andy looks to heaven. “Yes, you’re right. I’m a terrible parent. How dare I outfit you with appropriate river-wear.”

“As long as you know it.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” says Truck. “We cleaned all day, and Andy said he’d make sandwiches for dinner to make up for it. But then Andy said we were smelly and that we all had to clean up before dinner.”

Andy leans forward, a wicked glint in his eye. “So I send the kids to shower, and Tomas is hovering, with a hangdog face and his stomach growling so loud I can hear it across the room, insisting no, no, I couldn’t possibly intrude on dinner.”

“I do not make a hangdog face.” Tomas protests.

“You absolutely do.” Marcus finds himself saying. “Like the saddest betrayed orphan puppy. It’s obscene.”

Tomas looks up at Marcus, making the face of the saddest betrayed orphan puppy. It’s somehow worse, at the moment, like the puppy had been left out in the pouring rain, in a cardboard box long gone soggy, a poorly written sign spelling 'free,' shivering in the cold.

Marcus rests his chin in his hands and goggles as the kids snicker. “Do you do it on purpose? Honestly, do you know the face you’re making right now?”

Tomas scowls. “You, my friend, are a traitor.”

“ _Anyways_ ,” interrupts Caleb, “you haven’t heard the best part of the story.”

“The actual pastrami incident,” says Truck.

“Like I was saying, Tomas was doing the sad Catholic thing where you never admit you need anything, but I make him take a seat, tell him to help himself. I leave the kitchen for a minute for some minor bathroom related hullabaloo upstairs, a _minute_. I come back, and Tomas has made the most _ridiculous_ sandwich and has it halfway crammed down his gob. It’s got cartoon bite marks in it. And he looks immediately guilty.”

“Because it was like two feet tall,” chimes in Verity, finally rejoining the conversation.

“Bathed in a golden, heavenly light. Tomas is holding this sandwich like Prometheus stealing fire from the gods. He looks guilty as _hell_ , even from like, ten feet back.” Shelby adds.

“ _So_ guilty. And he has good reason because he literally took all the fucking pastrami.”

“Verity,” Andy says wearily, like they’ve had this talk a thousand times before.

Verity makes a very teenage face in response. “What? He did take all the fucking pastrami.”

“It’s a serious offense requiring serious language.” Marcus says as he meets Verity’s appreciative fist bump with his own. “Really, Tomas? All the pastrami?”

His head has made its way back into his hands. Muffled into his palms, Tomas whines, “It wasn’t all the pastrami.”

“Tomas.” Andy says, amused, “it was all the pastrami.”

Tomas’ head hits the table with a thump. “I regret meeting all of you.”

“And  _I_ regret leaving you at the kitchen table without adult supervision.” Andy says, getting up. “I need a refill. Anyone want anything?” Marcus shakes his head, and with a chorus of ‘nos’ from the kids, Andy takes his mug and wanders over to the counter.

Verity turns to Tomas with sudden, laser-focused intent. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want anything Tomas?”

Shelby punches her in the arm. “Verity, don’t.”

She swats him back without looking away. “I feel like you’re thirsty.”

Tomas slowly raises his head from the table, glowering.

Verity looks him dead in the eye, unsmiling. “These days, you always seem really, _really_ thirsty. Don’t you think you should do something about that?”

Marcus jostles Tomas’ shoulder teasingly as he makes a sound like an erupting kettle, trying to lessen the tension. “You, Tomas, paragon of health and virtue? I’m putting my well-being into the hands of a dehydrated pastrami bandit? I never.”

It doesn’t work. Tomas’ face is like thunder. The other kids are silent, watching and waiting for whatever’s going to happen next.

It’s silent for a long, still, moment. Marcus clears his throat. “Well. I’ve got to get going. Say bye to Andy for me,” and he hightails it the fuck out of there, because it’s not often that a scene gets bad and it’s not his fault, and rarer still that he gets the choice of leaving before things get worse. According to well-meaning idiots on the internet, you don’t always need to be part of other people’s problems. It goes against all Marcus has ever done, but it feels good to leave and not have to witness a fight about to go ugly.

He’s out the door and halfway down the block when he hears the door open and the bell ring cheerily. He turns and sees Tomas jogging after him.

“Marcus.” The flush from earlier that never seemed to quite settle down has made its way down his neck. Marcus tries to focus on the hole that’s been worn into the collar of Tomas’ shirt instead. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Tomas put out a hand, as if to rest it on his shoulder, before he jerks it down to his side in a fist.

“Come to convince me of your innocence?” Marcus says to try to hide his flinch. “Only God can judge you on earthly matters, but I’m not sure if deli-related sins are under His purview.”

Tomas is suddenly very close, forcing Marcus to look him in the eye. “Are you upset.”

Marcus takes a step back. “That Verity invited me over? That the Kims are lovely? That you take the kids volunteering on days off? Unbelievably. May never get over it.”

Tomas pushes forward. For a man that angles so to make himself seem small, there is a terrible amount of muscle and skin in front of Marcus and no space to look elsewhere. “Are you upset about what Verity said.”

Marcus steps back again, and his shoulders press against cool brick with Tomas blazing a corona of heat against his front. He can’t swallow around the lump in his throat. He can’t think. “The- the swearing?” Tomas says nothing, but gets impossibly closer. No part of him touches any part of Marcus, but he can feel his treacherous body responding in inappropriate ways. “Christ, Tomas, it’d be hypocritical of me to judge someone for saying fuck. I think I said worse within five minutes of meeting you.”

Tomas blinks, and Marcus watches the minute contraction and dilation of his pupils, breathless. He seems to shake himself, and as if noticing their closeness for the first time, jolts backwards. Marcus shivers in its wake.  Tomas laughs awkwardly, and for all his insistent eye contact seconds earlier, won’t look at Marcus. “Sorry, sorry. I uh, don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll, uh. I’ll see you at the clinic. If you want to.” Before Marcus can formulate a response, he’s gone, the coffee shop door closing behind him resolute.

Marcus takes a moment to compose himself. Shakes the tension out of his shoulders. Prays for strength, and forgiveness, and understanding of what the ever-loving _fuck_ just happened here.

It’s a long walk back to the convent. Maybe God will grant him peace by then.

 

* * *

 

  * ~~recognize personal boundaries, and enforce them when necessary~~



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> deleted response to Andy complaining about Caleb elbowing him : "But you've got all these backup KIDneys"
> 
> Let's talk about probably VERY hypersensitive Marcus until the cows come home, y'all. Hope you're having a stellar july.
> 
> (as a side note... does anyone know why gigantic spaces appear in ao3 between paragraphs. i. i don't like it)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is this thing that happens when you're doing much better until you're not.
> 
> Or, revelation is a verb more than a noun.

The next little while is… fine. No. It’s not fine. It’s _great_ . If at any other point in Marcus’ life he’d had a sure roof over his head, hot meals twice a day, and a bed he didn’t have to share that also had _sheets_ , he’d’ve been ecstatic. He wouldn’t’ve thought it could be even better, with Bernadette dragging him out to the garden at dawn, unsettlingly graphic postcards from Mouse detailing her newest case that have surely gotten him on some niche D.O.D watchlist, Bennett down in Rome with part of the crucifix jammed up his arse, the kids at the clinic. A shockingly demon-free Chicago and no other cases to take him elsewhere. Marcus is great. Marcus is just fine.

This is what he tells Bernadette as she glowers at him from across her desk as he presses a bag of peas gingerly against his eye socket, and winces as he accidentally presses too hard. She takes a deep steadying breath as she closes her eyes, preparing to tear him a new one. She’s in her speaking hour. Marcus is a fucking _idiot_ who should’ve known better than baiting a good ol’ Catholic boy at the pub, tugging at his collar while he looked him up and down, real blatant, and licked his teeth as the man’d turned furiously red.

“As you may know,” she says, eyes still closed, “the Church teaches that patience is a virtue, and should be practiced whenever possible, but Marcus Keane, you are testing my last possible nerve.”

“Can’t say I know what you mean.”

Her eyes fly open, incredulous. “Really, Marcus? Are you really going to try that crap after how you’ve been behaving?”

He leans back, crossing his legs and slouching in a way that Father Simon said made him look like the gutter trash he was before striking him to his knees.  “And how exactly, Mother, have I been behaving?”

She scowls. “Like you have a death wish. Like you did when Bennett threw you on our doorstep almost a year ago to keep you from wasting away at St. Aquinas.”

It stings more than it should, considering how true it is, how he baited her. “I won’t waste your time any longer then.” He sneers as best as he can around the peas, and slams the door behind him, doorframe rattling over Bernadette’s frustrated scolding.

None of the nuns he’s passed in the hallway had the balls to say anything as he stormed past, most scurrying out of the way and saying nothing. He was furious in a way he associated with the work, not with his fucking _personal issues_ \- he’s spent too long in this cold, dreary, awful city, and made the mistake of thinking he could build something here. Let something take root, and grow, slower than most, maybe, but verdant as anything. What garbage. This is what he gets for listening to someone besides himself, for thinking that he could- it doesn’t matter, anyway. He’ll grab his bag and go. He learnt a long time ago what was for him and what wasn’t, and- God, the endless thinking is pointless, it doesn’t _matter_ , none of this has.

It takes a considerable amount of wind from his sails when he sees his belongings, few that they are, spread around his room in gentle disarray instead of neatly packed into the army surplus bag that’d been the nearest thing to close companion in the last decade, ready to swing over his shoulder so he could leave Chicago behind. He sees a single leather shoulder strap peeking out from underneath the duvet cover. All of his clothes are either in the wicker laundry basket he’d woven at a community weaving class last month with Sister Maria, who was too shy to go by herself, or tucked neatly into the bureau beneath the window. Sketchbooks and pencils and charcoal’re spread haphazardly across his desk, books he’d borrowed from the library neatly in the corner. His hat is nowhere to be seen.

Marcus sits heavily on his bed, mussing the military sharp corners that he’d never been able to unlearn. Softness has snuck up on him.

If Marcus had been told a year ago that he’d be a library card carrying, nun-befriending, community center going, amateur gardener of an exorcist who hadn’t actually done an exorcism in months, he would’ve laughed himself sick, if he could’ve been coaxed off the mattress he’d curled up on after Gabriel, hadn’t moved to drink or eat or piss until Bennett had lifted him up by the armpits, curled an arm around his ribs and complained quietly under his breath about how Marcus just got heavier and heavier in his old age, had left him just as gently on the convent’s doorstep instead of the place where they took priests to die.

At some point during his woolgathering, Bernadette had shimmered into the room, and sat herself at his (his!) desk, and he startles to see her turning an origami flower over in her hands carefully. “You didn’t make this.” She states, like it’s an earth shattering piece of wisdom.

“I didn’t.” Marcus says, throat thick and dry like he’d heard a piece of earth shattering wisdom.

“Someone made it for you.” She places it down where she found it, featherlight, and pretends that she doesn’t see Marcus knuckling tears out of the eye not swollen shut. “You can recognize that. What I’m less sure of is if you can recognize what you make for others.What you’re making for yourself. It’s not nothing.” When Marcus doesn’t answer, too busy choking back the sobs that are trying to crawl out his mouth, Bernadette sits beside him on his bed, rests her head against his shoulder until it stops shaking. She puts out her hand, palm up, fingers gently spread and undemanding. Marcus wants to hold her hand, and is sick to death of denying himself, so he does, interlocking their fingers until it’s a knot of arthritic knuckles and wrinkled skin.

“You know you’re allowed to be happy, Marcus.” She says quietly. “It’s not about what you deserve, or what you think you deserve. God didn’t put a price tag on feeling good. You don’t need to be miserable.”

“Have we been hearing the same sermons?” Marcus says, and laughs wetly when she elbows him. It takes him a long time to be brave enough to speak. “It’s hard.”

“It is.”

He’s quiet again, for long enough for the sun streaming in through the curtains to have dulled, a narrow strip of sunlight warming the floorboards. “Sorry for being a tit.”

She squeezes his hand. “You’re forgiven. You’ll always be forgiven. That’s part of the deal. As long as you keep trying.”

There’s nothing to say to that, nothing that wouldn’t sound false or too-honest self loathing, so he doesn’t. They just sit there, in his room, until he can’t stand the water running down his wrist from the rapidly thawing peas, and the sun is almost gone.

* * *

 

“Oh my _god_ , Father Marcus, are you part of Catholic Fight Club? You look like you’re part of Catholic Fight Club.”

Marcus leans on the counter. “Spot on, Shelby. After all our priestly duties, we go down to the basement for a bit of fisticuffs. As Jesus said in the Sermon on the Mount: fight well and often, ye blaggards.”

“That was a good bit.” Shelby says thoughtfully, already typing rapidly into the clinic’s scheduling system. “You can really tell who’s studied scripture and who hasn’t by whether or not they remember the 11th commandment: punch evil and other stuff right in the face.”

“A commandment I try to live by every day.”

Shelby gives him an odd look, like Marcus is too-thin ice and Shelby’s trying to scamper to the other side. “You don’t seem to be so hot at it. No offense, but it looks like you got owned. It looks like you’re wearing movie prosthetics. It’s sad. I’m sad. Sad and uncomfortable.” Marcus blinks rapidly. “You know you don’t need to get the shit beaten out of you, right?”

“As Jesus said in Mark 2:11, roll with the punches,” and is greatly disheartened when Shelby doesn’t groan and roll his eyes, but just frowns, deep and sad, instead.

“Whatever. God helps those who help themselves. Do you want a booking or not? Bad and sad jokes are Verity’s jam, save them for Verity. I don’t wanna hear them, okay?” Shelby heaves a deep sigh, and shakes himself out. “Please don’t ask me to joke about that.”

The alarms that’ve been ringing faintly in Marcus’ hindbrain grow louder. “On the topic of our favourite shit disturber, I haven’t seen her in ages. Does she still work at the clinic?”

Shelby gawps, askance. “She’s been grounded for eternity since the Starbucks incident. I thought you knew that.”

“What Starbucks incident? Is she okay? Did she try to incite a worker’s revolution?” He jokes, as his stomach roils.

“If you don’t know, I shouldn’t tell you, sorry. Andy’s mad enough at _her_ for not respecting personal boundaries.” Shelby closes his eyes in mortification. “Shit. Forget I said that. This conversation never happened. There’s an opening at 3 if you wanna come back in a bit. And maybe ice your eye- Tomas is gonna lose it as it is, you don’t wanna make it worse.”

Now, Marcus is professionally good at ferreting out secrets, has had (possibly too many) years of practice finding where to push and prod at insecurity and guilt and shame until he knows what he needs to know. He could have Shelby screeching out the answers he so desperately wants in minutes. However, he’s had decidedly zero years of practice ferreting out secrets from people he wants to actually speak to ever again. It’s gonna need strategizing. Finesse. A less swollen face. So he waits patiently for Shelby to come back with a ziploc full of ice, and walks away the hour and a bit ‘til three, cogitating as seriously as one can with a sweating plastic bag pressed to one’s eye, and comes to the frustrating conclusion that there’s too many missing pieces to get any kind of understanding, accidentally splitting his lip again from chewing at it in the process. The look Shelby gives him when he walks back in the clinic is the scandalized pall of a Victorian heroine. It would be hilarious if it wasn’t so unsettling.

“You look _worse_ .” He hisses, pulling tissues out of the box by the handful. “There’s blood all over your teeth. It looks like you got punched in the face five minutes ago and then you smeared blood all over yourself for good measure. Oh my god Tomas is gonna lose his _shit_ and we’re all gonna die. You were fine for months, oh my god, clean yourself up quick before he sees,” he says, shoving tissues in the direction of Marcus’ face.

Before Marcus can deal with _that_ Gordian Knot, there’s the click of a door opening up down the hall, and the familiar cadence of Tomas telling his client to take their time getting up, the sound of him washing his hands thoroughly in the washroom. Shelby panics, letting the tissues go as he fucking ducks and _runs_ to the breakroom, leaving Marcus nonplussed with half a box of kleenex littered at his feet.

He didn’t even need to think on this part of the problem- there’s an.... issue with Tomas. For a while, he’s been unyieldingly stiff and professional; the little things that made Marcus feel like they were, well, _friends,_ haven't been seen in ages. Once, Marcus ran into him at the bodega that sells the really fluffy dinner rolls, and instead of standing there and doing small-talk like a normal person, Tomas fucking hightailed it- ran like his arse was on fire and Marcus was accelerant. It’s been awkward -will be awkward for the foreseeable future if this is any indication- there’s still tissues everywhere and some - _how_ , Shelby- stuffed down the neck of his shirt. Tomas’ expression travels along the spectrum of distantly polite to closely horrified a he walks up to reception.

Marcus is short on words, which apparently, is the new status quo, so he just... stands there. Tomas smiles through closed teeth, a grim cousin to a rigor mortis grin. He looks physically pained, and says, “Father Marcus, hello. How are you. Are you well. Do you have an appointment booked,” like a low budget AI.

Extremely cognizant of his (reportedly) blood covered teeth, he nods in response, and covertly licks at them (the reports were accurate) as Tomas leads him down the hallway to the unoccupied room. “Please take your time.” Tomas says as he gently closes the door behind him, like he’d rather be chewing a mouthful of gravel than be anywhere near Marcus. It hurts. He’d thought- well, whatever he’d thought doesn’t matter. He can read a room. If he didn’t have the _worst_ crick in his neck from the whole getting decked thing, he’d be out the door in a flash to give Tomas some space. As it is, he gets undressed hurriedly and slides under the softest sheets in the universe, and lets himself hum with pleasure, just a little bit, as the heated mattress pad turns his skin diaphanous and immaterial.

The heated mattress pad, while very good at making his body quiet and content, has no such control over his brain, which turns, and turns, even when Tomas comes back into the room with his damned lotion holster and hands and- oh. It clicks.

Tomas does not like him. Has perhaps- probably, almost certainly- never liked him. It was fine, and he was good at pretending geniality like any human being who has to work with other human beings, even ones like Marcus who don't fit quite right. The Starbucks incident. Respecting personal boundaries. Verity _knew_ and invited him over anyway, and -Lord- he didn’t think her capable of being so cruel. Or the kids playing along. Or Andy asking him to stay when- Christ, Marcus is so _stupid_ .

All told, it’s the worst massage he’s ever had.

(and probably the last)

The look on Tomas’ face when he rings him up, he makes himself look at it, the anger that had settled along every fine line and crinkle that Marcus had admired, just so he really gets it, understands what he’s been told since birth, finally. Tomas flinches when Marcus accidentally brushes against his fingers when he’s handing Marcus his receipt and a pamphlet, and he can’t help the wetness that begins to gather underneath his eyelids.

(Tomas sees it and jerks away like he’s been burned, makes the most agonizing sound)

Thrice damned receipt shoved into his pockets in his hands that are clenched in fists.Sky accommodating and opening up, releasing the rain that’d been up there and gathering pressure until it burst. Marcus, shivering, soaked, peeling off every piece of clothing from his frozen skin, shoving it in the laundry basket and out in the hall, and odd that he can remember that it’s Wednesday, laundry day, when his brain is reminding him of each and every single one of his tremendous fuck-ups, big and small and he sleeps, somehow, duvet shoved up to his chin-

-and wakes up to furious knocking at his door.

“Get _up_ you absolute lout, I’m going to _murder_ you-” a voice rants as he tries to peel his eyes open, eyelashes sticky with crud. Blearily, he gets up on autopilot, bare feet padding to the door, which he opens to find an irate nun (Helen? Helga? Hildegard?) holding her apron together with one hand to cradle a bunch of soaked paper at her waist.

“What is _wrong_ with you” she hisses, poking his naked chest with a meaty index finger. “”Are you purposefully making my life hell?”

He blinks, slowly, and scratches idly at his ankle with the opposite heel. “No?”

“Then why-” she shakes her apron threateningly, which honestly, is just her shaking it soggily- “do you keep leaving this shit in your laundry?”

Marcus blinks again, deaf to her continuing tirade, and picks up some of the balled paper from her apron. Most of it is leached of colour (hence the anger, he supposes), but some of the text is still legible. He brings it close to his face, squinting, to make sure he’s read it right.

Then she shuts the door right in her howling face, and puts on trousers and a shirt as quick as his trembling hands will allow.

He’s got a fucking appointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chunky chapter, which I fondly thought of as "the rapid mood swing one"
> 
> This is (maybe??) the penultimate chapter. WE'LL SEE. Thanks for sticking around!!


	10. Chapter 10

Marcus is rage and fury. He is barrelling down the six blocks to the clinic like a goddamn avenging army. He wouldn’t be surprised if the frost covered grass that covered the bare patches lining the sidewalk incinerated in his wake, turned black and ash. The cold stings at his nose, his cheeks, the skin bared between the collar of his jacket and where his hair ends. His hands tuck up into fists under his sleeves, half in anger, he is so _mad_ , and half cold. His steps quicken. How _dare_ he.

It is providence that the clinic is just open when he arrives. It’s empty except for a sleepy looking Truck at the counter, cheek pillowed against one palm and eyes half mast. When Marcus wrenches the door open, seething, he startles to wakefulness immediately.

“I didn’t do it.” Trucks says automatically. “Whatever it was. It was probably Caleb.”

“I,” says Marcus very slowly, telling himself that it will feel much better to yell exclusively at Tomas, even if the kids were party to this, and they’re young enough to be cruel without care but he didn’t think- “would recommend leaving for an hour and locking the door behind you.”

Truck is up like a bolt, desk chair spinning wildly in his wake, in his jacket and at the door before Marcus can finish his deep steadying breath that will keep him from digging into Truck’s insecurities with his sneer as a hook and _pulling_. Truck hesitates.

“What.” Marcus bites out, carefully.

“If you kill Tomas, can you do it on the laminate? Only, I’m supposed to vacuum today and-”

“-Truck.” Marcus says, raising his voice. “If Tomas is lucky enough to be alive by the time you get back, you’ll count that as a blessing.”

“Okaycooltrytoaimforitbye.” He says in a rush, and is gone, bell tinkling gaily in his wake.

Marcus waits for the turn of the lock, carefully counts to ten once Truck’s out of sight. Then he’s storming down the hallway that haunts his bloody dreams, sometimes, and turning the knob of the only room that spills light, piano music tripping down minor runs and resolutions.

Tomas doesn’t turn at the opening door- continues folding towels, head bent and shoulders slumped. Marcus would say he looked tired if he wasn’t looking like a presumptuous asshole. “You should be at the desk, Truck.” He says wearily. “I told you I don’t need help.”

“You’ll need help when I’m done with you.” Marcus hisses, and Tomas turns, alarmed, mouth half open like he’s going to say something, but Marcus thinks Tomas has done quite enough. Marcus has him pressed against the wall, forearm pressed tight against his neck before words can form.

“Did you think you were funny?” He says, crowding closer, head tilted in close enough to threaten, too close to see anything but the waver of Tomas’ mouth, the bob of his throat as he swallows. “Having a laugh? How much fun did you have with your little prank?”

Tomas makes this little sound that barely seems to escape his mouth. If Marcus had heard that sound a day ago, it probably would’ve driven him to distraction, bolting away to give himself distance. Instead, he presses in a little farther.

“Marcus,” Tomas wheezes, “I don’t know what you’re angry about.” The words vibrate through Marcus’ forearm.

“No? Nothing you did every time I walked through your door that might’ve made me feel less than pleased?”

He lets out a strangled laugh. “I’d like to know exactly what I’m getting pinned against the wall for. Would hate for any confusion.”

Marcus leans in closer. “Do I really need to say it?”

Tomas swallows thickly, and it is so loud, despite the piano, despite Marcus’ heartbeat thumping heavy and mad in his ears. “Would you mind being specific?” Marcus snakes his free hand into his pocket to wrestle the papers out, and the position is awkward enough that he needs to tilt his hips forward to reach. Beneath his arm, he feels the percussion of speech without sound. Tomas looks dazed and a little dumb when he flicks the business card into Tomas’ range of vision, he releases some of the pressure on Tomas’ chest- it shouldn’t be strong enough to make him breathless.

“Wha- oh.” Tomas says, eyes focusing. “Oh. That wasn’t a joke.”

“Excuse me?” He seethes. “This is the card for a fucking seniors abuse hotline. You’ve given me enough to piss off the nun on laundry duty, and coincidentally, me too. Where the _fuck_ do you get off?”

Tomas flushes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to be over-familiar.”

Marcus steps back to goggle at him properly. “You didn’t think _this_ was over-familiar? You think I’m abused? You think I’m a _senior_?!”

Tomas steps forward, and Marcus wavers back until the back of his thighs hit the massage table. His eyes are fucking dewy and sympathetic, what the hell. “Marcus, you deserve better. Being hit isn’t normal. It isn’t deserved. It’s abuse. I don’t know who made you think that but-”

“-who do you think is knocking me around, one of the million ninety-pound nuns I work with-”

“-there are resources out there for a reason-”

“-oh my God you think I’m a battered housewife-”

“-worried when every time you show up for an appointment there’s always something new before the old has healed and some terrible excuse!” Tomas says, voice raising. “I didn’t want to assume but what else was I supposed to think?”

Marcus throws up his hands in exasperation, nearly clocking Tomas in the process. “Maybe mind your own fucking business! Maybe don’t assume your clients are lying to you!” When did he get so close? Tomas is very, very close- no closer than earlier, but it feels significant in a way Marcus can’t quite place, that leaves him nervous and unsettled compared to when Marcus had him pinned. He’s curled his hands around Marcus’ shoulders, and he isn’t quite sure when that happened, either. He’s so _close_ but if Marcus leans back any further he’ll tip over the bloody table ass over tea kettle.

“Marcus.” Tomas says gently, squeezing his shoulders. “People don’t just get black eyes every other week. No one gets gashes down their front from blackberry bushes.”

Marcus opens his mouth to say something like _in my line of work a black eye means it’s Tuesday_ or _admittedly, the chest scratches were from Roland but the others were legitimately blackberry related injuries_ , _I’m just unused to moving my body with the care it probably deserves,_ but, well. That probably wouldn’t help his case. He lets his mouth shut with a click. Tomas takes his silence as admission like the sympathetic idiot he is. “I know I’ve already crossed the line, and I’m sorry for that, but if you’re hesitating to report it because you have nowhere to stay-”

“Tomas,” he interrupts, patting the hands on his shoulders awkwardly before peeling them off, “I appreciate your concern, but it is completely unnecessary.”

Tomas swats as his conciliatory hands. “It _isn’t_ , Marcus, you have some warped idea of self-worth-”

“-rude, you’re on thin ice already, shut up for a second.” He takes a deep breath. His hands are shaking hard enough to need hiding in his pockets. “I know what abuse is and isn’t. Couldn’t grow up with dear old da and not know otherwise. I work with…. I guess you’d call them troubled individuals. Sometimes they get rowdy and I’m in the crossfire. I’m fine. And fifty, not seventy.”

“It was the closest shelter to the convent.” Tomas mutters, a mutinous turn to his mouth. “It’s not only for seniors.”

“Concern noted. Now, maybe a bit of personal space?” It's getting harder (which would be funny if Bennett was here to scandalize with a leer and a win) and harder (no, really, it’s just awkward without it) to ignore Tomas’ solid heat against him, the mere inches of air between their bellies, the way Marcus could rest his head against his shoulder without effort. Also, his back is getting a crick from the angle he’s leaned at and a massage in the aftermath of this would just be an equally disastrous epilogue, so

Tomas flushes (flushes!) an objectively ugly red as he grumbles something about this not being over, and investigating his workplace conditions, the details of which escape Marcus as it shorts out Marcus’ last few brain cells. He grins sheepishly with his bottom lip caught between his teeth and takes a step back, leaving Marcus a catatonic vegetable. Which is the only possible reason he says what he does next.

“D’you get a lot of inappropriate customers?”

“What?”

“Well, y’know.” Marcus gestures uselessly at all of Tomas. “With the- and the-.”

Tomas’ face is doing something strange. “I don’t think there were any actual thoughts in that sentence.”

He can feel himself growing warm. “Christ, you know.”

Tomas steps back towards him. “No, I don’t think I do.” Another step. “Please tell me.”

Marcus has to lean back again, muscles complaining loudly. “The- you know, _Christ_ , Tomas I can’t _think,_ can you give me some fucking space?”

Tomas takes another step, shoes tucked near parallel to Marcus’. “No, I don’t think I can. I think-” and he hesitates, for a moment, and Marcus can see the white of his teeth against his lip again, and he wants so much that he’s dizzy with it, wants so much that he can imagine that Tomas wants too, wants _him_ too. “Marcus.” He repeats, and Marcus can feel the exhale of him against his cheek, needs to close his eyes against the onslaught of too much. “Can I? I think- I mean I thought wrong about- but. Can I. Can I.”

He nods, and it feels too small to be noticed, this herculean effort to admit, to allow, but it must be enough because Tomas makes this noise at the back of his throat that Marcus can feel through the hand pressed against his cheek, can feel as Tomas kisses him.

* * *

 

 

 

  * ~~challenge your personal boundaries when appropriate~~



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> (this chapter brought to you by -em dashes and not editing your fucking work)


	11. Chapter 11

At first, it is not very good. At the last second one of them must have  turned or tensed or both, because it’s more the clink of teeth against teeth and noses pressed uncomfortably against each other’s cheeks than a kiss. Tomas huffs out a frustrated breath and takes a step closer. Marcus is about to have a heart attack from knees knocking against his own, but then Tomas tilts his head. After that, he doesn’t have the space to think about anything but the soft inside of Tomas’ lower lip. Soon, he can’t think at all.

“Is it,” Tomas pants some interminable time later, “is this okay, are you-”

Marcus isn’t okay with want, isn’t used to letting it well up and spill over. He doesn’t have the language required to describe what it means to acknowledge it, let alone for someone to encourage it. Not brave enough to look, and not able to speak, all he can do is anchor a hand in Tomas’ shirt and cut off whatever terrible kind word will come next with his mouth.

For a minute, there is just the honest supplication of skin, the careful lift and press of his lips. Then Tomas is pulling away again with a sound he wants to bottle up and keep, tucking his face against Marcus’ scalding neck. He can feel Tomas’ stomach jump underneath his shirt, where his hand is now twisted, close and low.

He can also feel his back killing him from the ways he’s angled against the table, but he’s struck by the novel urge to not fuck this moment up.

“Marcus. We should talk.” It is very tempting to bite into that lovely junction between neck and shoulder. He can imagine how Tomas might twitch and hiss as he set his teeth there. Melt forward into Marcus, make him lean backwards to the take the weight of him regardless of muscle pain.

Again, the urge to not fuck this up makes itself known, so he doesn’t try to give Tomas a wonderfully messy hickey. His self restraint? Beyond compare. “Makes sense. Probably not a great idea to sully the massage table.”

Tomas groans again, mashing his forehead painfully into Marcus’ collarbone. “Do _not_ talk about any sullying right now. I have had far too many thoughts about sullying this table with you. That I would like to make a reality, but, _talking_.”

“Really?” Marcus says, stuck halfway between delight and disbelief.

“How could I not? You come in with your body tied in impossible knots, and then I _touch_ you and-” he shakes his head. “This is not conducive to not sullying the table.”

“I don’t know, I’m kind of enjoying all this.” Tomas hits his head again, a repeating dull thunk. Marcus doesn’t know when he started running a hand up and down the planes of Tomas’ back, but it is very nice. The rasp of cotton under callus, warmth and fabric and muscle underneath.

“What do you want out of this relationship?” He stills. Tomas slowly raises his head, and takes a step back, leaving Marcus’ front cold. The caution that paints his face leaves him colder still, like Marcus is the delicate china that gets left in the cabinet because they’re never sure if it’ll explode during entertaining. “You were very upset that I assumed things about you. I want to respect that. But I’m not sure how to read this as anything but negative.” Marcus' tongue sits fat and useless against his teeth. Tomas waits long moments while he tries to force air into his lungs, force his stupid mouth to speak, before he moves to back away completely. The fist still clutching his shirt tight keeps him near. That, at least, gives Marcus another moment where he stays. So much for not fucking it up.

That moment becomes two, then three- enough moments for the hippie background music to tweedle on, and a couple of songs with rushing water and chiming bells begin and end, and Marcus forces himself to breathe, and breathe. He keeps looking at his hand in Tomas’ shirt, knuckles shining white. The skin there shows its age where it falls looser than in youth, the green-blue swathe of veins, scars fading white, red lines shot throughout because he never remembers his damn hand lotion. “Why do you want this?” Marcus says, quietly, as if that will hide that he is flayed.

“Why do you?” Tomas replies, and wraps his hands carefully around Marcus’ own.

“I don’t _know_ . I don’t know _how_ to want.”

“They don’t tend to teach that at bible camp.”

Marcus laughs despite himself. “I am excellent at what they do teach, though. Won’t meet a better potato peeler. Decent at maths. Coulda won a medal in Aramaic if we bothered with celebration.”

Tomas smiles, and Marcus realizes that he’s looking at him again, and that Tomas is looking at him, and it makes something warm and anxious burn furiously in his chest. “Wouldn’t you know, I’m _very_ into Aramaic-speaking potato peelers who are just okay at math.”

He smiles back, hurting and helpless and happy despite it. “You’re in luck.”

This is, of course, when Verity bursts in the door, Truck hot on her heels. “Don’t kil- oh. Ew. Congrats, I guess. Truck, you are dead to me.”

“Oh my God.” Tomas says.

“Oh _my_ God Tomas, fuck you, I get grounded when you’re already macking on Father Marcus?” She pauses, and realization seems to dawn painfully. “Oh my _God_ , you’re macking on _Father Marcus_.”

“Help.” Truck says, strangled. “My brain.”

“Macking.” Marcus repeats dumbly.

Tomas makes a valiant effort to look authoritative while still, as the kids say, all up in Marcus’ business. “Verity, go home. Truck, go back to the front desk.”

“So you can fool around in our place of work? No way. You’re getting a permanent chaperone. Your thirst is too strong to be trusted.”

“ _Verity._ ”

“Thirst?” Marcus warbles. Verity smiles worryingly, and Tomas is over there in a flash before she can open her mouth to say anything else apocalyptic, pushing Verity and Truck bodily out of the room and repeating nope like a death knell, slamming the door behind them. Immediately, there’s banging on the door from furious teenage fists.

“Tomas!” Verity yells, muffled through the door. “Don’t put out ‘til you’ve got a promise ring!”

“Go _home_ Verity, I am not discussing this with you!” Embarrassment is making some fascinating tendons stand out starkly in Tomas’ neck.

“Respect his tender feelings Marcus!”

“Verity-”

“He’s hot for your bod, Marcus!!”

Tomas slams a hand against the door, and she falls silent. “Go home now, or they will not find your body, and they will not weep,” drips from his mouth like a promise, if that promise comprised of a venomous snake.

(it’s kind of hot, not that Marcus is going to share that)

Through the door, he can hear her stomp away. Even from where Marcus is standing, he can see Tomas is flushed a dull brick red. “Demons have _nothing_ on teenagers,” Marcus blurts, and feels the sudden and complete desire to fling himself off a cliff, even if Tomas is reportedly hot for his bod.

Tomas, a normal human being who of course assumes he’s joking, thunks his head against the door. “I’m beginning to think they’re one and the same.”

Marcus flings himself a proverbial life preserver, which, _growth_. “If only both weren’t real. Anyway. You don’t want to talk about that.”

Tomas turns against where’s he leaned on the door, and slides down ‘til he’s sitting, knees akimbo, looking up through his lashes devastatingly. “I don’t not want to talk about it. I think I could talk about anything with you.”

He smiles, and it feels a bit wobbly at the edges. “Even that?”

“Even that,” Tomas says, reflecting Marcus’ smile back as something beautiful. Someday, Marcus thinks, he might.

 

* * *

 

 

  * ~~do the things that make you happy~~



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow!!! thanks for sticking around. this is the first fic i ever finished, so we're all the real winners here.
> 
> I'm considering writing some time stamps in this AU, so if you have any ideas you think would fit well, feel very free to share!
> 
> Have the best day, y'all. Your hair looks great.

**Author's Note:**

> unbetaed, done in one beautiful horrible marathon. let me know what you think!! write your own stupid aus!!! prosper!!!


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